Review: Fuller House

Of all the kitschy, shamelessly sentimental shows, the 90’s sensation Full House isn’t fondly remembered for its progressive humor or tearjerker subtlety. There is nothing worse than when an unintentionally corny product begins to become meta and self-aware. It’s like artificial intelligence, the danger is in the autonomy and foresight of its surroundings. When the Tanner clan knowingly breaks the fourth wall with Michelle as a fashionista joke directly to the invisible audience, cringes are the least physiological response.

It’s not ineluctable that Dave Coulier is near 55 and still adorned in cartoon pajamas. Instead it’s a creepy and despondent example of Peter Pan syndrome. Plus, his imitations of Bullwinkle are just haggard now. Jokes about John Stamos’ skin-cream agelessness are too on-the-nose for a show that thrived on its guileless innocence.

The premise is DJ is a single mother whose firefighter husband nobly perished and now she must resort to residing back in his San Francisco childhood home. “Isn’t it crazy I wound up living in my old bedroom?” DJ asks but the gruesome truth is Jeff Franklin and the writing staff are so creatively bankrupt that they thought chrysalis was better than growth or evolution for the characters. Also, sight gags about Stephanie’s ample cleavage are pretty unseemly for a family demographic.

Too amount of canned laughter can disguise the fact that the show is drenched in flop sweat and stomach-churning nostalgia. It should’ve been a reunion special. DJ’s farewell party which bids adieu to the original cast is livid trickery to hoodwink the audience into thinking the special guests will be regulars. Time to relegate Fuller House back to its excruciating Netflix cash-in status.